CHAPTER 24
Wrexford stared at her, feeling a momentary flicker of pity. Her intelligence and humor deserved more than to have been corrupted by lust and greed.
But passion, he knew, rarely followed reason.
“Indeed, they have.” His voice seemed to deepen and darken as it echoed off the walls. “I’m glad to see we share a pragmatism, madam, if nothing else, and may avoid the unseemly spectacle of false tears and protestations.”
Isobel shrugged. “I’ll not insult either of us with such histrionics. You’re a clever man, Lord Wrexford. I assume you’ve uncovered proof.” The candle shifted, throwing her eyes into shadow. “Though I had hoped your scrutiny would stay on Eli’s murder, rather than stray to my peccadilloes.”
“A rather benign term for your betrayal,” he replied. “And how could you have hoped I wouldn’t connect the two when they are, in fact, one and the same sin?”
A look of puzzlement flitted across her face.
“I trust you’ll give me a full confession, and tell us who wielded the blade—especially now that your other conspirator lies dead.”
“Dead?” Isobel stared at him blankly. “Who?”
“Your paramour, Lord Kirkland,” piped up Sheffield. “We found him a scant twenty minutes ago with his throat foully slashed. Just like the others.”
“Murderous bitch!” exclaimed Octavia, her face twisted in fury. “What have you done with Benedict?”
Keeping his eyes on Mrs. Ashton, Wrexford waved them to silence. If he didn’t know better, he would have found her show of shock convincing. Her knees buckled slightly, and her hand flew to her breast as she fought to steady her stance.
“Kirkland isdead?” She shook her head in disbelief. “My only confession is that I can feel no sorrow at the news. He was a thoroughly dirty dish, devoid of all honor.”
“You have the gall to use the word honor?” jeered Octavia. “For shame—”
“Silence, please, Miss Merton,” Wrexford cut in. “Allow me to do the questioning.” To Isobel, he said, “Are you claiming that you and the viscount weren’t responsible for your husband’s murder?”
“I may be guilty of some sins, but not that.Neverthat.” Her chin rose. “I respected and admired my husband. And while we didn’t flame with love’s passion, we were very fond of each other.”
“You’re lying,” said Octavia.
Isobel ignored the accusation. “You can’t claim to have proof of my involvement in Elihu’s death, Lord Wrexford, because none exists.”
“A note was found in your dressing room,” he countered. “One in which Kirkland warns you not to panic and you’ll both get what you want. How do you explain that?”
“Ah. Miss Merton and Mrs. Sloane . . .” Isobel glanced at Octavia with a grim smile. “I should have suspected something havey-cavey was afoot.”
“Rather the pot calling the kettle black,” murmured Sheffield.
Isobel’s brow furrowed in a pensive frown. “I recognized Mrs. Sloane from the past . . .”
Out of the corner of his eye, Wrexford saw Charlotte start within the shadows.
“But decided it was her own business if she wished to keep her true identity to herself.”
Secrets tangled within secrets. What skeletons, wondered Wrexford, were about to come rattling out of the closet to join the fresh-killed corpses?
“Just who do you think she is?” asked the earl in a carefully measured voice.
“I, of all people, sympathize with the desire to conceal past mistakes, especially when one is a woman,” replied Isobel. “It’s not always for nefarious reasons, so I shall leave it to her to decide what to tell you.”
Wrexford fought to keep his questions about Charlotte from overpowering all the others. Time enough for that confrontation later, he told himself. Murder and mayhem must take precedence.
Whatever secret she was hiding, he didn’t believe it involved a trail of dead bodies.
“Very well,” he responded. “Then let us return to the note. How do you explain it?”
